The Thai Fighters Affair redux
by MLaw
Summary: Napoleon is partnered with an agent from the Singapore office, sent to Bangkok to find a missing diplomats son as well as Kuryakin. Pre saga


"Mr. Solo, please be seated," Alexander Waverly beckoned with his hand. His demeanor was grim, and that didn't bode well to Napoleon.

He slipped into his usual chair at the conference table; his Russian partner was conspicuously absent and had been for weeks. Illya was off on an assignment of his own, the details to which the American had not been briefed.

It was rare that a communications blackout occurred with agents reporting strictly to the Old Man, but this was one such occasion.

"As you are aware, Mr. Kuryakin has been on assignment. I'm sorry to say we have lost communications with him and there has been nothing in the last week."

Solo maintained his composure, though with this pronouncement his insides were now tied up in a painful knot.

"His mission sir?"

"He was investigating the disappearance of the son of a French diplomat in Thailand."

"A child sir?"

"No Mr. Solo, adult. His name is Pierre-Michel Babineaux, age twenty-two. According to his father, he has been sewing his wild oats and has oft times gotten himself in trouble due to his foolish actions. It seems he's been drawn into a rather unusual development with a growing ring of street fighters operating in Bangkok... an underground situation, as it were. Apparently young Babineaux has been frequenting these gatherings, betting on the outcomes. It was surmised he lost a great deal of money to the organizers, money that he himself couldn't cover financially. There has been no ransom demand, nor has a body surfaced. What happened to him is a mystery, and now Mr. Kuryakin is a part of the mystery as well. "

"Local police?"

"Are quite corrupt, and have turned a blind eye to the situation which is being controlled by the gangs."

Napoleon's eyebrows knit together. "Mr. Kuryakin's last communication?"

"He indicated there was no sign of Babineaux and was planning to infiltrate the largest of fighting rings."

"That doesn't sound good," Solo thought to himself. Illya was a quite a scrapper when it came to boxing, but street fighting didn't exactly follow the Marquis of Queensbury rules.

Waverly sent round an airline ticket. "Your flight to Bangkok leaves this evening. You'll be joined by an agent from our Singapore office, a Louis Cheng."

"I've heard good things about him sir."

"Mmm, yes quite. Mr. Solo I suggest you dress down a bit on this assignment as double breasted suits and Italian loafers will be a bit obvious in the seedier section of Bangkok. If you like you can pick up suitable clothing from the wardrobe department," Waverly snickered to himself, suspecting his number one agent didn't own anything that would be considered a bit more earthy in men's wear.

Napoleon tried not to wince at that. "Umm, yes sir."

The flight to Bangkok was a tedious one, being over twenty-two hours long. Napoleon hadn't shaved again before leaving, and his hair was in need of a shampooing. As Waverly had ordered, he wasn't dressed in his usual natty attire. His new look seemed to send a different sort of message to the stewardesses on the flight, and they rebuffed his attempts at flirting. Apparently in this case clothes as well as good grooming did make the man.

Their lack of attention the American found a bit disconcerting at first, but he'd get over it.

When the flight at last landed at Don Mueang International Airport, there was the usual plethora of sign holding drivers meeting their passengers at the international arrivals. Among them Napoleon spotted a fresh faced Chinese man holding a placard with the name Uncle Alexander.

"I have an Uncle Alexander in New York," Solo gave the code."

"Ah but my Uncle Alexander is from London," the proper response was given. "Louis Cheng. Welcome to Thailand," He shook Solo's hand." Our car is parked nearby. Rather than a hotel, you'll be staying at my place. It's small, but comfortable."

"Xièxiè. Call me Napoleon, by the way, " he spoke in Chinese.

"You're welcome. Do you speak Thai?"

"No, I presume that's why you're working with me."

"Just say, K̄hx k̄hxbkhuṇ for thank you," Cheng nodded.

"I'll pass on that. A little too tongue twisty for me," Napoleon followed him out to the car. There was no need for retrieving luggage as he carried only a small canvas duffle bag with him. The fact that his attire would be a bit wrinkled would only add to his cover image.

Cheng's apartment was in a small two story building located on the second floor. The white exterior was weather worn and stained black from the frequent rain, and humidity. At the moment a steady but light rain was falling as they exited their compact car. The weather didn't seem to deter the shop owners at the street level with their wares, selling mostly food, spilling over onto the sidewalks beneath covered stalls.

As the two UNCLE agents entered the building and climbed the stairs, the sounds of typical apartment dwellers filled the air...a baby crying, music playing, as well as a man and a woman in the midst of a loud argument.

"Right here," Cheng stopped in front of door 4B.

Once inside he gave Napoleon a quick guided tour. "Bathroom is there," he pointed to the right, and then to the left. "Kitchen. Feel free to help yourself to anything, though I don't keep much in the way of food. It's easier just to get my meals from one of the vendors on the street. I do have American coffee and a percolator."

Napoleon followed him down a short hallway.

"That door is to my bedroom, and here is the sitting room; the sofas double as guest beds." He opened a Japanese style shoji screen window panels behind one sofa, letting in some air along with the noise of the street below.

Solo set his duffle down on the floor. "No offense but I hope I'm not here long enough to make myself comfortable." He looked around the room, finding it even more spartan than Illya's place back in New York. The size of Cheng's entire apartment was smaller than Solo's living room.

"Perfectly understandable," Louis nodded.

Napoleon flopped down on the sofa. "You know I will take a cup of coffee. I'm suffering from some serious jet lag." He massaged his right temple.

"Sure, it'll just take a few minutes to percolate."

Once the coffee was brewed, Louis reappeared with a white ceramic mug in his hand. He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw Napoleon was asleep, deciding it was better just to leave him be.

Three hours later Napoleon awoke to the smell of something delicious. After rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he headed to the kitchen.

"What is that?"

"Hello," Louis grinned."This is Pad Thai, a local favorite of stir-fried rice noodles with egg, peanuts, shrimp, tofu, bean sprouts and tamarind juice. For dessert there's mango with sticky rice in coconut cream. It comes from a local restaurant that makes food to order. I'm pretty much a regular there. Sit, help yourself."

The thought suddenly popped into Napoleon's head of he and Illya frequenting Chang's Chinese restaurant in New York city. How many agents did the same thing, spending part of their lives eating take out food.

"Sounds as good as it smells." Napoleon seated himself at the small kitchen table, taking in the delectable aroma.

Louis handed him a fork and a spoon.

"What no chopsticks?" Napoleon was actually relieved as he and traditional Asian eating implements didn't exactly get along.

"They're used for mostly noodle dishes, but I prefer to use these," Louis chuckled. "While you were napping, I did some digging around when I went to get the food. Rumor has it there's an Octagon fight set for tonight, though the location isn't revealed until the last minute. It's because they're highly illegal. The police are generally paid off, but once in awhile someone honest comes along and tries to stop them."

"Octagon?" Napoleon speared a shrimp and popped it into his mouth.

"One of the numerous fight clubs here in the city. It's said Octagon is the most dangerous. People die in their arenas. No one taps out and the fighters keep going until one is down for the count."

"What happens to the losers?" Solo asked.

"Not sure, but rumor has it they're executed or sold to slavers."

After their meal Napoleon changed into more appropriate clothing for the warmer temperatures. A pair of worn jeans, an old grey tee-shirt and sneakers. Very much not his style, nor was his not showering. He needed to look scruffy and a bit edgy.

The evening arrived with Solo and Cheng heading out, and after paying the right price they found out the location for the fights; a warehouse along the waterfront.

It was a dangerous part of town for locals, but for the American who stood out, perhaps more so as he was a farang. That was a derogatory term for all Europeans, or perhaps more accurately white skinned people from abroad.

They found the warehouse easily enough, and there were a number of expensive cars with drivers parked outside.

The fee to witness the evening's festivities was one hundred dollars American, which Solo paid for both of them. No weapons were allowed, and both men came prepared for that as they had a collection of miniature explosive devices hidden in cigarette cases, and Solo had a flask that when opened, it released knockout gas. He also wore a knit cap on his head, and hidden beneath it were a couple of small glass vials. When broken they would create a thick white smoke screen.

Inside the warehouse temporary platforms had been set up around a octagon shaped arena; its walls consisting of heavy plywood hinged together. It could all be taken down quickly if abandoning the location became a necessity..

In a large metal cage to one side warehouse stood a group of young men, and in the middle of them was Kuryakin. He was shirtless, and barefoot, only wearing a pair of pajama-like black cooley pants, cropped at mid-calf. There was a long vicious looking gash going down his abdomen and he stared out, his eyes not focusing on anything in particular. The remnants of a cigarette was clenched between his lips, though it was unlit.

Illya's demeanor however, changed as soon as he spotted Solo; instantly life returned to his blue eyes.

Napoleon stepped up to the cage, pretending to look over the captive fighters. Apparently these men were unwilling participants in Bangkok's gladiatorial arena.

Solo's fingers moved discreetly, greeting Kuryakin with the private sign language they used with each other. It had come in handy on many's the occasion when speaking wasn't possible.

"Glad to see you not okay?" Solo asked.

"Glad to not be dead, but have had close calls here. Tiring of this scene. Get me out."

"Babineaux?"

"Killed in arena. You have plan?"

"Working on one. Hang tight,"Napoleon signed.

"Is there choice?" Illya backed away, burying himself behind the others while trying to remain invisible.

"Enough looking over fighters, move along to viewing platforms. Chop chop," a goon called out, pushing Solo and Cheng along.

Scanning the crowd that had gathered to watch the fights, Napoleon saw men wandering among them, taking bets as they called out who would be fighting in the first match of the night. Apparently there was a wagering frenzy regarding a particular farang fighter.

Napoleon and Louis settled in, getting a good viewing spot along the railing.

One of the walls swung open and an announcer stepped to the ring, raising his hands for all to quiet down.

"Now we have a treat for you. A real scrapper, the mad Russian, versus the undefeated champion of Slice Fight Club, the great Channarong. This will be a no holds barred match. Place your bets now as once the fighting starts, betting will close."

Napoleon cast a glance to Cheng who nodded. It had to be now or never.

Kuryakin was pushed into the ring, and it obvious he was not a willing participant. Padlocked around his throat was a thick leather collar and attached to it was a small silver box the size of a Zippo lighter.

"Move!" The armed guard walking behind the Russian pushed him forward.

"I refuse! I am done with your so called fight games!" Illya barked with pure defiance in his voice, but in the blink of an eye he was down on the floor; his body uncontrollably writhing and convulsing.

As quickly as they started, the seizures stopped.

Apparently the device around Kuryakin's neck had delivered a pulse of electric shocks, momentarily disabling the man. Illya finally got to his feet, his face drained of what little color he had, and moved to the far side of the arena. The shocks hurt like hell but did nothing to really harm him.

Now that he was out in the open, Napoleon got a better look at his partner. He was always a thin and wiry guy, but seemed a little skinnier than usual. Besides the gash on his stomach, his back and arms were covered in bruises.

A monster of a man stepped into the arena next.

Channarong was built like a powerlifter, with muscles on top of muscles. Standing over six feet tall;, Kuryakin looked like a little boy in comparison to him. He too wore a collar with a the little shock box around his neck.

"How are we going to do this?" Louis leaned over as he whispered to Solo.

"Not sure yet. The missing diplomat's son is dead so now we need to focus on rescuing my partner and the other captives out of here as well."

"That's a tall order. What do you want me to do Napoleon?"

"While everyone is watching this big fight I need you to take care of the guard at the cage and get it open. Lead the captives out of here."

"Got it, and you?"

"I'm still figuring that out."

A Chinese man, resplendently dressed in a red and black embroidered robe, looking like something out of the old court of Peking, appeared on the platform. His vantage point was raised slightly higher than the others and that drew the attention of all at the arena. In front of him was a Copper Plated Reiter Canton Boxing Bell. He raised one hand, holding a small mallet, signalling a momentary silence.

"h̄ı̂ kem reìm t̂n! Ràng yóuxì kāishǐ ba! Let the game begin!" He spoke in Thai, then Chinese and finally repeated in English

His hand came down, striking the bell with the hammer.

The crowds erupted in a roar, holding up handfuls of money as they cheered for both men.

Illya went immediately into a defensive position, his arms spread apart in front of himself, he was slightly crouched and looked like an animal ready to pounce.

Channarong lumbered towards him, but Illya being light and limber dodged out of the way. They played cat and mouse for a few minutes until the audience started to boo.

They wanted action, they wanted blood. Illya knew this and he was aware if he did not put on a good show and lost this fight..and chances were good at this happening; he would get a thumbs down and be killed.

Kuryakin suddenly drove himself through the air with both his feet hitting Channarong's stomach. It seemed to have no effect and Illya quickly redoubled his effort, driving his foot down against the side of the big man's left knee.

Channarong went down with a howl as the damaging blow had disabled him.. It was at that exact moment that one of the men ran up to the boss, telling him the others had escaped.

Before he could yell his orders Solo pulled the glass vials from beneath his cap and tossed one at the man in the red robe and the other into the arena.

He leaned over the side, holding out his hand for his partner to grab it. As soon as Illya took hold of Napoleon's hand he was hoisted up, and together under the cover of the smoke screen they took off. As they dashed from of the warehouse Napoleon opened and tossed the flask inside, releasing the sleeping gas.

They made it to the car that Cheng had running and were away about to pull away when Kuryakin's eyes rolled backwards. He was having a seizure and it was the collar causing it.

There was no way to know where the person was who was controlling it. Though he knew he'd be shocked, Napoleon grabbed a knife from the glove compartment and leaned over to the back seat, taking hold of the collar with one hand. As he felt the electricity course through it, he fought back the pain and sawed through the leather until Illya was free.

Both men collapsed, though Illya was unconscious.

The pulsating sound of sirens neared as the car turned the corner. It was members of the Royal Thai Armed Forces."

"I contacted them," Cheng said to Solo. "They're less likely to be in bed with the fight club rings."

"Good move," Solo nodded.

They returned to the agent's apartment and there Illya's cuts were cleaned and bandaged, amazingly no stitches were needed. Luckily Louis and Illya were around the same size; after a bath and good meal the Russian changed into a fresh pair of pants, a tee shirt, as well as a pair of sneakers.

"What happened tovarisch?" Napoleon finally asked.

"Like you, I went to the fights under cover but I was spotted by someone I did not expect to be there. One minute I was trying to get to the cage where Babineaux was being held, and the next I was set upon. When I woke up, I was in the cage as well, the body of young Babineaux was being carried out on a stretcher from the ring. I am afraid he was quite dead." Illya shook his head as he lowered it in remorse. "I heard they feed to bodies to a pack of dogs kept somewhere, but I do not know that for sure."

"Hey tovarisch, it wasn't your fault. Now who was it that made you?"

"General Xiao."

"That's not good," Cheng said."I wonder what he is doing lurking around here?"

"I have no idea, " Illya said."I was put into the ring to fight for the first time a week ago, like you saw me today. It was then I discovered the pain of the collar as I would not fight to amuse them. I was forced to comply or die. Xiao left after I won my match, and refused to kill my opponent as it was supposed to be to the death. The man in the red robe known only as the Master shot him, and I was sent back to the cage. Not every fight was to the death, but they kept sending me in as I continued to win." Illya got up, exhausted both emotionally and physically. "I need to sleep."

"Come, " Louis said." I have a second sofa that doubles as a bed in my sitting room.

Kuryakin slumped down on the cushions and was asleep in an instant from pure exhaustion.

Louis returned to the kitchen and poured coffee for he and Napoleon.

"What's our next step?"

"That's up to Mr. Waverly, as things have changed," Napoleon answered. He looked at his watch and figured the Old Man was still at headquarters, even though it would be late. Sometimes it seemed like the man never slept, but Solo knew otherwise.

He pulled his communicator pen and quickly set it with a practiced hand.

"Overseas Relay, Mr. Waverly."

"Yes Mr. Solo what news have you for me?" He sounded very much alert and awake.

"Bad and good sir. I'm afraid Pierre Babineaux has been killed in this fighting ring business. We were able to successfully rescue Mr. Kuryakin, who I think was close to being killed himself."

"Pity about young Pierre. I will give his father the bad tidings myself."

"There's more bad news sir," General Xiao was seen lurking about this particular fight club called the Octagon, and it was he who spotted Mr. Kuryakin and alerted the ringleaders to his presence.

"Xiao? His usual modus operandi is to start up some sort of revolution, though there's enough going on in Southeast Asia for him not to do a thing."

"Perhaps he was there simply for a twisted form of entertainment sir," Cheng spoke up. "We can investigate...

"Yes Mr. Cheng by all means do so, but with help from our Singapore office. I will set that up for you. In the meantime Mr. Solo, you and Mr. Kuryakin return to New York. Your involvement in this affair is at an end. I will see you when you return. Waverly out."

For once the American didn't mind not handling this new affair. This fight club thing was far from over and with Xiao possibly in the mix, it could only get worse.

Napoleon had an uneasy feeling about it; that didn't happen often and when it did, something bad usually happened. Besides, Illya needed to recuperate, he rationalized to himself. Kuryakin was pretty beat up, and his head wasn't in a good place.

The Russian always took the loss of an innocent personally and it would put him into one of his quiet, brooding moods. Sometimes it took him a while to get out of it.

Napoleon was accustomed to his partner's ways, and never pushed Illya to talk. He'd do it if and when he was ready, if at all.

No doubt the psychiatrists back in New York would try to pick the man's psyche apart. It wouldn't be the first time, nor the last. Illya knew how to play the game when it came to their mental prodding.

Napoleon looked at himself in the bathroom mirror and suddenly found the idea of getting home and wearing real clothing, the kind he was accustomed to, a relief. A shave and a shower were the first thing on his to do list here, but the clothes would have to wait.

He suddenly realized how shallow that sounded, and laughed at himself as he turned on the shower.

Once cleaned up, he emerged from the steamy room to find his partner just waking up.

"Hey, you okay?"

"As best as can be expected under the circumstances. I will be fine once I get a full night's sleep and then we can start restart the investigation tomorrow."

"Sorry to tell you but the Old Man has ordered us back to New York. Cheng and the Singapore office will be taking the lead on this one."

" It is because of my failure in my assignment to rescue Babineaux." The look on Illya's face said it all.

"No it's not. Mr. Waverly has another assignment for us," Napoleon lied.

"Oh..." Illya shrugged, and rolled over on the mattress, turning his back to his partner. "Good night Napoleon and thank you for coming to get me. I suspect I might not have lasted very long against my last opponent."

Solo knew it wasn't as simple as that, Illya would still be mulling things over in his head, second guessing himself.

"I don't know about that, you took him down pretty fast…" Napoleon realized his partner was lightly snoring.

Kuryakin feigned being asleep, wondering why his partner had lied to him. There was no assignment awaiting them in New York. "Perhaps it was just Napoleon being a mother hen? Tomorrow they would talk and contact Waverly to see about changing his mind."

Illya felt like he owed it to young Babineaux to see this through. He was startled when Napoleon leaned down and whispered in his ear.

"Stop faking, and we're going home whether you want to or not. That's final."

Illya opened one eye, turning and looking at the American.

"Am I getting that predictable?"

Solo chuckled. "What do you think?"

Illya finally laughed. "No one knows me like you do my friend."

"Friend... that's the operative word isn't it?" Napoleon winked.


End file.
